breakfast. girl. girl. girl.
muddleplinth and bethany converse and share cabinets
aged nine you never lied twice, police tape waggling liketentacles. police tape streaming as bossy flags - and
when they weren't looking, shoved gloops of
snot behind the radiator. not much, not much - but
"tell me i'm a bad witch and that you hope a house
lands smack on my face, tell me i'm a bad witch - - - while
you do that - say that i'm a witch and that you wish the houses
fall on me, - - you want the houses with a slap and a bang to my face,
tell me that" -
then he stopped and hung blankets over the mirrors in
the wardrobe, and said that it made the room look like
a vertical picnic. you sicked in the bathroom, the tiles looked
like the paper inside maths books, didn't they.
where the radiators, where the radiators, there are
cabinets where the files fan out like teeth - you should
promise us that you'll never work in an office love. that
is all. that is yours for the asking.
meanwhile lost. this is later, later -
where the sheets are white and you have bled, so they look
something like a slit, rolled apart sheep. bethan it's
probably morning - beth nobody worries and still it
couldn't be tuesday - the bin men's steps never
stopped to fondle the gravel now did they? the flung
and the batched. yet, - - toast and grapefruit juice loom a
bit, so we all place bets regarding which bland
hour you slyed your jumper back on.
bloody hell the sparrows are bored though - they have taken up
smoking and indulge in strategic shits which block key
letters and magic the streetsigns into witty posers that
the seagulls all flock to watch. i don't hate you,
your face it too full of ballets. you are puddle clasp,
you are ballet face.
you aren't quite lasting are you? - and i just
can't do. i cannot.
Poetry by Claire
Read 1085 times
Written on 2005-08-05 at 11:49
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intothehaze |
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